Consequences
by HappyChaos3D
Summary: Mystery Spot tag. Sam wasn’t the only one who had a lesson to learn during those 3 months alone. After his death, Dean watches Sam from the sidelines and sees the consequences of his deal and just maybe, a way to out. Too bad he won't remember..
1. Purgatory

**Consequences**

By Deana W

**Summary**: (Mystery Spot) Sam wasn't the only one who had a lesson to learn during those 3 months alone, nor is he completely alone. After his death, Dean watches from the sidelines and sees the consequences of his deal and just maybe, a way out. Too bad he won't remember when the Trickster snaps his fingers.

**A/N:** The central idea for this story is something I wanted to write for some time, but couldn't figure out how. Then "Mystery Spot" came along, and an abandoned idea is given new life. Plus it gives me the opportunity to expand on those three months when Sam was alone, something I wanted to do since the episode aired, but I still wanted Dean to be present, so the two ideas merged. If you stick with me, you'll see what I mean. To be honest, the jury's still out on how I feel about this chapter, but I hope you'll bear with me and enjoy. And please leave a review. I thrive on constructive criticism.

**Disclaimer:** "Supernatural" and all the characters you recognize are not mine, but you already knew that I'm sure.

**-o-0-o-0-o**

Dean felt…weird.

He couldn't quite remember what happened, or how he ended up on the ground or why his chest hurt and everything else felt…numb.

He glanced up and saw Sam running frantically down the stairs in obvious worry for his brother. "I'm OK Sam, I must've…. fell or something," he said, slightly unnerved because he couldn't remember falling. He quickly climbed to his feet, embarrassed because he felt the need to use the back of the impala for support, but Sam still looked panicked as he ran towards him. "Seriously dude, I'm OK…" Dean expected Sam to grab him by the shoulders to steady him and ask him if he was hurt, but Sam wasn't even looking at him Dean realized. Instead Sam dropped to the pavement in despair and with a gulp Dean was suddenly hit with a weird feeling of déjà vu.

Following Sam's movements he saw Sam wrap his arms around Dean's body.

"Not today, not today," he lamented, "This wasn't supposed to happen today."

Dean gaped as he watched the scene unfold. He saw the blood pour from the wound on his chest—gunshot wound—he suddenly remembered, and as the memory returned, the dull ache in his chest sharpened into agonizing pain. Dean clutched his chest, doubling over from the pain and saw blood seeping through his fingers. It was his turn to panic now as he wondered what the hell was going on. He gasped, breathing heavily even though he was aware that he didn't need to breathe. He was dead.

As the realization hit and he acknowledged that fact, the pain subsided, and the blood pouring from his non-corporeal chest stopped, leaving only a red stain, though the pool of blood gathering under his body continued to grow.

He knelt beside Sam, who was now crying over his body and he attempted to put a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, but Sam didn't feel it. In fact, his hand only went through him, sending a shiver through Sam. Seeing Sammy in such despair bothered Dean at that moment more than the knowledge that at any second now he'd probably be dragged into Hell. "Aw man, I don't know what happened, but… it's going to be OK. I don't know how but…"

"He can't hear you, you know," a feminine voice said.

"I know but I was hoping…" Dean turned to the voice and saw a woman who was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place her. "You can hear me. But then why can you hear me? You a psychic or something?"

She cocked her head to the side and rolled her eyes, but her tone and demeanor remained eerily calm. "Dean. Come on. You know better than that. Don't you remember me?"

He stared at her, studying her large gray eyes, her fair complexion and dark hair. She was beautiful, and her features were so familiar but he couldn't remember her at all, "A spirit?"

"Close," she shrugged, "Guess again."

Dean sighed and mentally kicked himself, because the answer was obvious. He was a dead guy now after all, "A reaper?"

She nodded gently.

"You're prettier than the last reaper I met," Dean commented lightly, but his voice betrayed his growing apprehension, "I thought reapers were old and wrinkly, like those creatures on _Buffy_ who put the mute button on Sunnydale."

She laughed at that, "We can look however we want. Besides, I _am_ actually the last reaper you met."

Dean nodded, "Sam said something about me fighting a reaper when I was in that coma. It was you?"

She nodded again, but her expression was somewhat sour, "You were the one who got away Dean Winchester."

"So I guess," he took a deep, but unnecessary breath, but old habits die hard, "I guess this is it. You're taking me to Hell now."

"You seem a lot more accepting of your fate than the last time I saw you," she said, "Last time you were stubborn, you even begged me not to take you. Ironic since last time you were fated for far better."

"Last time I saw you I was still breathing," Dean pointed out. He looked over at his body lying cold and lifeless. It was surreal and unnerving and sent shivers down his ghostly spine.

"Not on your own," the reaper retorted.

"Touché," Dean replied.

He knelt beside the grieving Sam and felt a pang in his heart. Sam looked the way Dean had felt those few months ago when Sam was the one lying dead.

"I guess it's easier to accept when you know it's coming," Dean mused, "but I thought I'd have more time."

Unless it involved a beautiful woman, Dean was not into the touchy-feely hugging thing. In fact Dean could count on one hand the number of times he hugged Sam since he was thirteen. Every time it was in the aftermath of a life and death situation. The most recent being when Sam had returned from the dead. The Winchester men had their own ways of expressing their love, but Dean had an uncontrollable urge to wrap his arms around Sam and pull him into a tight bear hug in comfort and tell him everything was going to be all right, even though they both knew it wasn't. Dean was Hell-bound. How could that be all right?

Even though he already knew it was impossible, he tried anyway. His arms went through Sam, and Sam shivered suddenly and violently and Dean quickly moved away. Sam gently released Dean's body and straightened, he cupped his hands to his mouth and blew, rubbed them together and then wrapped his arms around himself, shivering, completely unaware that it was more than the chilly morning that made him cold. Sam sniffed, absently rubbed his eyes and said, "I'm going to fix this Dean, I promise. I don't know how but…somehow I'll fix this.

"I'm so sorry Sammy," Dean whispered, a part of him hoping his message somehow got through to him, "but um… it's going to be OK. I mean, dad got out, right? I'll find a way out too. Just promise you'll be safe and try to be happy OK?"

"How is he supposed to be happy?" the reaper asked, "You left him alone in the world."

"Not my fault."

"Not your fault you left early," she corrected him, "You were still going to leave him."

He sighed in acquiescence, "Not much we can do about that now is there?"

She tilted her head and shrugged slightly with an expression of ambiguity. She gave him a small, unreadable smile. "You should've never made that deal Dean."

"What was I supposed to do? Let him die? I was supposed to save him, he's my brother, it was my job to protect him, save him!" Dean was on the defense, and he raised his voice, letting the reaper feel his anger and despair as the memories of that night washed over him.

"Or kill him," she added.

"I would never do that," Dean spat, "I'd die first."

"And that's the problem," she sighed. "Dean, you know that expression about the road to Hell?"

Dean knew, but he didn't answer, instead he watched as Sam covered Dean's face with his jacket. Sam's lips twitched as he worked to erase the emotion from his face. To fight back the hurt and rage that was threatening to seep from his eyes and mouth. It was a look that frightened Dean, because there was an eerie coldness in his blank expression reminiscing of the look he had when he killed Jake.

"It's paved with good intentions," she continued.

"I know that," Dean snapped, turning his attention back to her, "but he's my brother."

"And you're not the only one traveling that road," she added.

Dean's eyes narrowed, "What do you mean?"

She sighed, "You think dying for Sam is going to save him?" Her tone was calm, but Dean could sense she was getting irritated.

Dean nodded, "He's alive isn't he? I mean, yeah, I didn't want to die, but it looks like I would've died anyway seeing as I'm having a conversation with a reaper. I saved Sam, nothing else matters. At least I can die knowing that."

The reapers large, soft gray eyes closed and she murmured wearily, "You just don't get it, do you Dean?"

"I know," was his resigned reply, "I know where I'm going. There's no need to rub it in, I know what I'm in store for. I know what I'll become."

"Denial," she huffed, "No wonder you're so calm, you're in denial. You have no idea what's in store…"

"Yes, I do!" Dean snapped. "Fire, brimstone, torture, loss of humanity the works… I get it!"

"Not just for you, but for what you're leaving behind," she remained calm despite his outburst, "or have you already forgotten there's a war going on?"

"So I made the deal!" Dean hissed, "So what? Turns out it wasn't even the deal that did me in anyway, so it's all a moot point, right? At least one of us is still standing to fight so spare me the lecture lady and let's get this over with all right?"

"And you're OK with leaving Sam to fight on his own? You sure weren't last time we met," the reaper stated, "and the war had barely even begun then."

"No, I'm not OK with leaving Sam on his own. But…what difference does it make? Besides, I trust him. He might have a hard time for now, but he'll be OK," Dean didn't sound very sure. He looked at Sam again, who was sitting on the trunk of the Impala, his skin was white, his face was hard and his eyes were narrowed, but glistening with the moisture of unshed tears, tears he was trying to hold back. He was staring blankly at Dean's motionless form on the pavement, his chin trembled slightly and his throat bobbed as he fought hard to emulate Dean's stoicism and keep from crying. The only deliberate move he made was to turn his head towards the sound of oncoming sirens.

"Please be safe Sammy. Be OK," Dean pleaded. "I hope you'll retire from the family business. I hope you'll find you a nice, sweet girl and live happily ever after. But don't forget me dude, please. Whatever you choose to do, don't forget me or I swear, if I ever find my way out of Hell I will haunt your ass. We're talking demon Nair in your shampoo man. Same thing goes for if you hurt my car." He stepped up beside Sam and put his hand on Sam's shoulder, or at least went through the motion of putting his hand on his brother's shoulder. He stopped his palm just before his hand could go through him, his fingers barely went through the collar of Sam's jacket, "Anyway, promise me Sam you will take care, OK? Bye Sammy."

Dean pretended to give Sam a pat on the back and then shifted his eyes towards the reaper. He took a deep, unnecessary breath and said, "I'm ready. Just make it quick." He closed his eyes and waited.

"Make what quick?"

"You're a reaper right? Well hurry and reap my soul to Hell, get it over with," Dean pressed.

"No," she murmured softly.

"No?" he was incredulous.

"No."

"And why not?"

"For starters, do I look like a Hellhound to you?"

"No, but you're a reaper, so dragging my ass to Hell is part of your job, right? And to be quite honest, I'd rather have you take me there than Hellhounds so…"

"Secondly," she continued as though he said nothing, "it's not your time yet."

Dean snorted, and tilted his chin to the body on the pavement, "Tell that to my corpse."

"I mean your contract entitles you to one whole year before going to Hell."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you still have a few months left. I could take you there now, but wouldn't you rather stay away for as long as you can?"

"So what? You're letting me hang out in Heaven for a while first?"

"No," she said, "You stay here, on Earth, as a spirit. Purgatory."

"I thought Purgatory was where souls hung out until they atoned for their sins so they could go to Heaven."

She nodded, "Yeah, something like that."

"But no matter what, I'm Hell bound."

"For now."

Dean perked up, "Are you saying…"

She lifted a shoulder ambiguously and gave a look that said, "Maybe."

"I thought you said that if I stayed here, then I might become an angry spirit," Dean mused.

"So you are starting to remember me," she smiled. "And there's always that risk, yes, but it would take time for that to happen, time you don't have."

"Can I ask you why?"

"Why what?"

"Why you seem to be helping me?" Dean frowned.

She lifted her eyes to meet his, "What makes you think I'm helping you? I just figure since your fate is sealed…for now…there's no need to take you to Hell so soon."

"Why do I get the feeling there's an ulterior motive though?" Dean asked, trying to still the quiet panic that was slowly creeping through him, threatening to reach the surface.

"I guess I can understand why you'd want to get it over with Dean. But if I take you now, there's no going back. If you stay here, there's still a chance for you. Maybe it's too late to save you in body, but not in spirit. So I am helping you, but really you need to help yourself," she replied.

"What are my odds?" Dean asked, "What's the likelihood I'll be saved? Ruby said there was no way to save me from the pit."

"Demons lie," she shrugged.

"And I thought reapers were neutral," Dean added, "So why help me?"

"I have my reasons," was her calm reply.

"And they are…?"

She paused, and sighed heavily, and wearily. Her large gray eyes were unreadable, but Dean had a feeling that behind her own stoic expression there was something eating away at her, a burden that Dean couldn't quite figure out. She closed her eyes and said softly, "Dean, there's a lesson to be learned before you go."

"OK, I'm listening," Dean held his hands out to his side, palms towards her, open, defeated, ready to hear what she had to say. He didn't know what else was so important to learn, especially now that he was dead. "Teach me oh, Death. What is this valuable lesson I have to learn?"

"I'm afraid you're going to have to figure that out on your own. There are rules to follow and I'm a busy reaper, you do understand," she didn't sound sarcastic, or annoyed, rather her tone was gentle and sympathetic.

"And if I learn this lesson? Will that save me?" Dean's frustration was growing.

"No."

"Then what's the point?"

"You're going to have to trust me," she put her hand on his cheek, her expression soft and genuine.

Dean momentarily turned away from her as Sam banged his fist on the trunk of the Impala. His face was red, his eyes moist and his expression filled with hurt anger. Dean wanted to reach out to him, and the fact he couldn't made him regret all the times he pushed Sammy away and only added to the growing frustration and fear inside him. When he turned back towards the reaper, she was gone.

-0-o-0-o-0-

**A/N **Thank you for reading. Please, leave a review and tell me what you think!


	2. Denial

**A/N** So sorry for the tardiness in updating. I have no excuse other than being really busy and discovering this is a lot harder to write than I thought and I don't know why. Well, anyway, here it is, your next chapter. I'm not too crazy with the result and it's shorter than I intended, but I was anxious to update. I don't have a beta, so any mistakes are all mine. I hope you enjoy, and remember, please leave a review, it feeds the muse you know. Thank you so much to everyone who has expressed interest in this story. It got a better response than I expected and that makes me so happy! Thank you!

**Disclaimer**: "Supernatural" and any characters you recognize is not mine, but a girl can dream right?

Anyway, here it is, chapter two. Enjoy!

**0-o-0-o-0**

The first thing Dean missed about being alive was the ability to be seen and heard. He quickly learned that made for a lonely existence.

The second thing Dean missed was alcohol because after being dead twelve hours, he needed a drink.

Instead he had to be content to watch as Sammy sat at the bar of some dingy dive within walking distance of the motel and attempted to drink away his grief. They both knew it wouldn't work, though it might take the edge off for a little while. Dean had only seen Sam drunk a couple of times. Sam knew his limit and it was a rare occasion when he'd purposely exceed that. It was a rare occasion for both of them. Neither of them allowed themselves to get drunk unless they had the other to watch their back because it was dangerous in their line of work to put them in such a vulnerable position. Dean sat on the barstool beside his brother and watched as Sam ordered one drink after another in an obvious attempt at just that.

"Come on Sammy, you know you're going to regret that in the morning," Dean chided as he watch Sam signal to the bartender he wanted a refill.

Sam didn't react of course, but when the bartender gave him a funny look Sam just glared and shook his empty glass.

"OK," Dean sighed, "If you want to drink yourself into a drunken stupor, be my guest. I mean, I can't say I blame you dude. If I could, I'd probably be doing the same thing right now. Do you think ghosts can get drunk? I mean, assuming ghosts could drink? And if they could, how much would it take for them to get drunk?"

Dean didn't expect an answer, nor did he get one. Instead he watched as Sam rested his forehead against the bar, his arms dangled forlornly at his side. He was a wreck. He hated seeing his little brother in such agony, especially knowing he caused it, or at least knowing his death caused it. He hated that no matter what Dean did, he couldn't comfort him. He couldn't tease him and try to either make him laugh or get a rise out of him to help him forget his troubles either. All Dean could do was be there for him, and Sam had no idea. As far as Sam knew, he was alone in the world.

It had been a trying day for both of them. While Dean watched Sam deal with the aftermath of the shooting he also found himself experiencing the surreal existence of being a ghost. Dean was quickly learning about what he could and couldn't do and was dismayed to learn that as far as being a ghost went, he was pretty useless. He knew from years of experience in hunting them, that every spirit seemed to have their own set of rules, and therefore abilities, but so far Dean had none—at least none that could be considered useful. Most importantly, he had no way to communicate with the living, no way to let Sam know he was OK—or as OK one could be after dying and becoming a ghost. At least he wasn't in Hell…yet.

Meanwhile, Sam was in many ways stuck in denial about the situation. He had gone through so many Tuesdays that in a morbid way, Dean's death had become routine. Sure, the difference now was that it was Wednesday for the first time and no longer Tuesday, and Sam had yet to wake up like all the other countless times Dean had died only to be resurrected as the day repeated itself. He had been telling himself over and over that when he fell asleep, he'd wake up and it would be Wednesday again because the Trickster was determined to mess with him. After all, the Trickster promised that the next time Sam woke up it would be Wednesday, not that the time loops would stop. Maybe the Trickster just wanted Sam to play out the entire day this time.

However, as the day wore on, Sam was faced with the nagging feeling that Dean was really gone. It threw him into such despair that Sam forced himself back to the denial stage, because denial was so much easier than anger or sadness and acceptance was not an option. Dean had brought Sam back, and Sam was going to do the same, one way or another… somehow.

It was when the persistent little what ifs that invaded his mind became overwhelming that Sam found himself in a dire need to get wasted. What if he had already failed at his last chance to save his brother? What if Wednesday was _not_ going to repeat itself and he was already too late? What if he couldn't find the Trickster? What if he couldn't save Dean from the Trickster's sick game? What if he couldn't save Dean from his deal? What if Dean was in the Pit right now? Burning in agony, having his humanity tortured out of him all because of Sam?

That thought alone caused everything he had to drink and what little he had eaten that day to come back up. He threw his hands to his mouth trying to hold it in as he swallowed back what he could. Still, liquid vomit seeped through his fingers and he doubled over, suddenly aware that his eyes were leaking tears.

"OK buddy, I think you had enough," the bartender sighed resignedly. He tossed Sam a towel and he began to clean himself up, nodding absently as Dean watched, wincing in sympathy. "How 'bout a coffee instead?"

Sam shook his head, "No. No coffee. It'll keep me awake."

"Well I'm not having you pass out in my bar. I'm cutting you off."

"Good move," Dean nodded, pleased with the bartenders decision. As much as he understood Sam's desire to drink himself into oblivion, he didn't want to see his little brother suffer like that. He was going to have a hell of a hangover as it was and he didn't want Sam to do something he'd regret because he was too drunk to think clearly.

"I'm not going to pass out," Sam said, his voice slightly raw and slurred, "I wish I would but I'm not that lucky."

"What are you talking about kid?" the bartender asked.

Sam raised a brow, "One more. Please."

"You don't strike me as a drunk, kid, so why are you starting now? Girlfriend dump you?" Sam lowered his gaze and the bartender tried to meet it, "Boyfriend?"

Dean laughed out loud at that, despite everything, "Told you you're a girl!"

Sam snorted softly, half a grin crossing his face. He could only imagine what Dean would've said. But his expression darkened and he shook his head. "Nothing like that."

"Then what?" the bartender asked in the way that bartenders who doubled up as shrinks tended to do.

"Look, I don't want to talk about it. Can I just have one more drink, then I'll go, I promise," Sam slurred, a deep sadness was etched plainly on his face.

"Why don't I call you a cab instead?" the bartender offered.

"No need," Sam shook his head, dejected. "I walked here from the hotel."

"You stayin' at the Flamingo Des Palm?"

Sam nodded sadly.

"You hear anything about what happened there this morning?" The bartender asked.

Dean flinched, "Why did you have to ask him that? He doesn't want to talk about it!"

"Been hearing a few rumors, but nothing solid so far, just that there was a shooting and someone was killed," he continued, obviously oblivious to the invisible presence in his bar.

Sam's expression darkened even more, but he didn't answer. Instead a middle-aged man who had been sitting at the opposite end of the "L" shaped bar nursing his beer got up and edged closer. Sam and Dean both snorted at that. Figures that would be the big piece of gossip going around. Brower County wasn't the type of place that had murders after all.

"I heard about that!" he exclaimed, "Saw the police and tape covering the area on my way to work. Heard it was gang related."

"Damn," the bartender shook his head, now more interested in gossip than the young man who seemingly couldn't hold his liquor. "Things like that just don't happen here. Gangs you say?"

"Yeah," the other man nodded, "so I've heard."

"In this town?" the bartender frowned, still shaking his head in disbelief.

"I heard two men got in a fight," chimed in a third man who was sitting at a nearby table, "apparently one of them pulled out a knife, but the other one pulled out a gun."

"Shit," the bartender exclaimed, "Brower County is supposed to be a safe place, now we've got those big city tourists coming in and…"

"That's what people have been saying?" Sam snorted angrily. "Well you've got it all wrong!"

All three men and Dean stopped and stared at him.

"You know what happened?" the man at the bar asked.

Sam looked away, "It was my brother who got shot. He sure as hell wasn't part of some gang. He wasn't like that. He was just minding his business packing the car but then some punk had to murder him for no good reason. Probably wanted to steal his money."

"You're right on that one Sammy," Dean sighed, not caring that no one would hear him, "Ironic, don't you think, that after everything we faced it was an amateur mugger who actually did me in, huh?" He smirked, giving a humorless laugh.

The bar patrons gaped at Sam as the bartender poured another drink and set it in front of Sam apologetically, "On the house."

Dean snickered at that, but obviously, no one noticed.

0-o-0-o-0-

The night brought forth a restless sleep from Sammy, and bored frustration from Dean. He still wasn't sure why the reaper was so interested in him sticking around shadowing Sammy, or what he was supposed to learn, or what the point was. Learning this valuable lesson wasn't going to change things. It wasn't going to save his soul from Hell, nor would it change the fact that he was still dead. If learning this lesson would somehow save him, then he'd see a point, but there was none. Maybe the reaper just got off on watching Dean watch his brother suffer.

Dean never did get that vibe from her however and as he watched Sam sleep, he gave an honest effort at trying to figure out what she was getting at. Certainly Sam wasn't doing well at the moment, but that was to be expected. Sooner or later he'd connect with Bobby and Ellen and Missouri and they'd help him get through his grief and… Missouri!

"You should go see Missouri Sam," Dean said to his sleeping brother. He nodded at that. Sure they hadn't been in touch for a while, but if anyone was going to help Dean communicate with his brother, she'd be the perfect Whoopi to his Swayze.

Sam mumbled something in his sleep. It was too mumbled for Dean to know what he was saying, but the hurt in his tone was enough to catch Dean's attention but again, it wasn't surprising. It was perfectly natural to be in mourning. Shit, he wasn't the only one—Dean too mourned his own life.

However, like Sam, but to a lesser extent, he too was stuck in a form of denial, because other than the inconveniences that being a ghost provided, Dean felt fine. It was hard to believe he was actually dead. It was still rather unreal to him—like a vivid dream. Although when he thought about it—and goodness knows he had more time to think than he'd ever want—the fact his heart was no longer beating pissed him off dearly.

For almost two years, Dean had welcomed the thought of death. Not to the point of suicide, because he didn't want to do that to Sam (selling his soul didn't count as suicide in Dean's opinion, though in retrospect he understood why Sam thought it did), but he did sometimes wish for the release of death. Because he knew he was already past his expiry date. He wasn't sure why or how but since he died, he was starting to remember bits and pieces from when he was in the coma almost two years ago. He remembered the look on the beautiful reaper's face a second before the black smoke entered her and her eyes turned yellow and he woke up. That look told him how wrong it was that he lived and even without that memory, he had known it all along. He should've died, not their father. He cheated Death twice, and people, good people had died because of it. And so, for two years he secretly hoped for Death to find him because he was tired of living, and tired of people dying in his place.

Then one stupid nightmare made him realize how important it was that he lived. He didn't want to become a monster. As tired as he was of living, he would rather live than become a demon. For one whole week, Dean Winchester did _not_ want to die. For one whole week he wanted to live and then because life was one cruel joke he had to die at the hands of a mugger of all things!

It just wasn't fair. It was bullshit. It was crap. Being dead sucked.

If it were physically possible, Dean would've hit something.

Dean watched as Sam rolled over with a pitiful moan. The covers didn't quite follow his movement and slid off of him. Dean wanted nothing more than to tuck the covers around his brother like he had done when they were little. But he couldn't and it just wasn't fair.

**TBC**

**0-o-0-o-0**

**A/N** Well, thank you for reading, please tell me what you think! Your comments are golden! Until next time……


	3. Eulogy

**A/N** Here it is another chapter! Yay! And it didn't take a month to do so! This chapter was really hard to write and I'm afraid I might have gone a little overboard on the angst factor, but on the other hand, Sam is in mourning. I'm not sure about this chapter because it didn't turn out the way I intended, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

As always, thank you so much for the reviews. I'm sorry I haven't replied to them yet, but please know that I appreciate every one of them. I'm a little overwhelmed and humbled by the amount of people who have reviewed and/or put this on their story alerts. Thank you so much for showing interest in this, but I hope that you will please leave a review. I'd love to know what people think, good or bad. It will only take a second. Well, even if you don't, thank you for reading!

**Warning**: there is a lot more language than usual in this chapter.

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, "Supernatural" does not belong to me, but sometimes when I fall asleep, I dream a little dream of Dean and that makes up for it. :P

**0-o-0-o-0**

**Chapter Three: Eulogy**

It was a beautiful sunny Thursday morning, which was to pretty much everyone in Brower County a welcome change from the dismal weather they had been having, but to Sam, the sunshine served as a slap in the face and it did nothing for his hangover induced headache. When the alarm radio went off, Sam sat up like a spring then immediately shut his eyes and shielded them from the offensive sun.

"Morning Sammy," Dean sighed.

"Dean?" Sam croaked, flicking his sleepy eyes in his direction. Dean was taken aback, for a moment he thought Sam could finally sense him, but then Sam looked over and his gaze bore through him and there was no sign of recognition. Dean could practically see Sam's heart sink as his shoulders sagged. Sam glanced at the clock, noting the "THURS" on the old-fashioned radio and fell back into his pillow. That small fact made the permanency of Dean's death painfully real.

"It's Thursday," he whispered. Those two words were filled with such despair Dean could hardly stand it. He sounded so young, so lost, so vulnerable that Dean wanted to scream because there was nothing he could do to help him.

Sam lay in his bed for a moment, looking like he was on the verge of tears, but then his stomach protested his drinking binge from the night before and he made a dash for the toilet.

Dean flinched at the sound of every heave, of every groan that came through the open door of the bathroom. Eventually the heaving sounds gave way to choked sobs. The sounds blended in such a way it took Dean a moment to realize he was finished vomiting.

"You bastard," Sam sobbed, "You fucking bastard." Sam moved away from the toilet and leaned against the bathtub, his elbows rested against his knees and his face was buried in his hands. He shook violently as he cried and carelessly wiped his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, stepping into the bathroom.

He sat across from Sam in a similar position and watched him, uncomfortable and unsure of what to say, not that it mattered. He could've said exactly what needed to be said with the eloquence of a poet laureate or the wit of Robin Williams and no one would be able to hear him, but still, he felt like he _should_ say something.

Instead he just watched as Sam's cries evolved into coughing, screaming sobs as he pounded his palms angrily against the floor. Sam leaned forward and slammed his fist against the bath towel spread out on the floor, positioning himself on his knees. Dean closed his eyes, feeling a tear fall down his own cheek.

"Why does it have to be Thursday for fucks sake!" he screamed, "Take me back! Let me try again! Please you sick fuck! Show your face you bastard and fix this!! I was supposed to have more time dammit!" Sam hissed through his tears. "What the flying fuck have I done to you? Huh? Dean didn't deserve this! Bring him back damn it! Bring him back! Please! I don't want to play your fucking piece of shit game!" Sam haphazardly wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand, and collapsed to the floor, resting his forehead against his hands that he folded on the floor as though he was praying. "Please, please, pleasepleaseplease I…I can't do this alone. I can't handle this, god Dean, come back, please come back."

"I wish I could Sammy," Dean murmured quietly.

Sam continued to breakdown to the point where he could hardly breathe. He finally lurched and pulled himself up against the toilet and vomited some more. Between sobs and dry heaves Sam choked, "I'm…supposed…to have… more… time…"

Watching Sam lose himself, Dean was finding it difficult to keep himself together. For a fleeting moment Dean wondered if ghosts could cry, but he answered his own question when he felt his eyes water and found himself choking back a sob. He wasn't a crier, he dealt with grief differently than Sam ever did, but there was a freedom in knowing that no one could see him. Dean was slowly beginning to realize that now that he was dead, there really was no need to hide behind the walls he had spent a lifetime building. But old habits died hard and Dean bit his lip and forced himself to still the tears that threatened to fall.

After his crying screams quieted into soft sobs, Sam leaned back against the bathtub again and pulled his knees to his chest and fought to catch his breath and collect himself. When he felt he had the strength to do so, he grabbed a wad of toilet paper and blew his nose and pulled himself to his feet. Sam looked at himself in the mirror and grimaced at his red-faced reflection.

"Pull yourself together Sam," he scolded. He turned on the tap and scrubbed his face with his hands and when he looked back at his reflection he muttered, "Damn it Dean, if you could see me now…"

"You have no idea," Dean sighed.

"Seeing me cry like a girl… I can only imagine what you'd say," Sam bowed his head and leaned against the vanity.

"Under normal circumstances? You might never live it down, but shit, considering everything…" Dean replied, "Can't say I blame you. I think you should be allowed to breakdown Sammy, just this once. I did. I went ballistic on the impala when dad died, did you know that? And then when…well when you, uh, you know… when Jake… well we know what happened there. I just hope you don't do what I did. I still think you deserve to live over me. I don't care what that reaper said. You're still handling this better than I did when I lost you."

"'Stop being such a girl Sammy and do something about it,'" Sam said in his best 'Dean' voice. "Great, now I'm talking to myself," he sighed, drying his face. He stood in front of the mirror and surveyed the redness in his complexion, and the puffiness of his eyes, all from crying.

He stood there silently for so long, Dean wondered if he just shut himself off, but then he noticed the subtle shift in his expression. Sam was trying to erase the pain from his face, the small lines in his forehead, the quiver of his jaw and all the visible tells in his expression that showed he was hurting. It wasn't until his expression was a cold, hard blank slate that he finally moved from where he was standing. He dry swallowed some Tylenol for his headache and began to pack up his and Dean's things. He couldn't stand another minute in that hotel room. He only stayed there in the foolish hopes that somehow he'd get another opportunity to save his brother.

Packing didn't take long, because Dean had most of his stuff packed at the time of the shooting and they weren't really there long enough to do much of unpacking in the first place. Though to Sam, he felt like he had been there for months and in a way he had.

"Yeah, let's get out of here," Dean agreed with Sam's plan of action, "I'm dying to get back on the open road…uh, no pun intended." He paused and lifted his shoulder with a smirk, "OK, maybe it was a little bit intentional."

The attempt to lighten the mood was entirely for Dean's benefit. He knew Sam wouldn't hear it, but a part of him hoped that sooner or later, Sam might be able to sense him like he did before, when Dean was in the coma. Besides, the tension, and knowing there was nothing he could do about it was enough to drive him mad. It was no wonder some spirits became dangerously violent. Why _those_ spirits could have an impact in the physical world while Dean couldn't was beyond him, and it pissed him off.

When Sam was finished packing the car, Dean sat next to him in the passenger seat and watched as Sam just sat there behind the wheel and did nothing but stare into space with a lost expression on his face. "First step Sammy is put the key in the ignition. I thought we've been over this when you were fifteen."

Sam heaved a heavy sigh and leaned back, closing his eyes, gripping the steering wheel at the twelve o'clock position. He thought about all those he lost in his short lifetime and then leaned forward, pressing his forehead against his fingers on the wheel. He almost looked like he was resting, but then Sam banged his head against his fingers forlornly.

Dean frowned at the hopelessness in his brother's watery eyes.

"This is so wrong," Sam muttered, "this isn't the way it should be."

"I know," Dean murmured.

Sam sat there silently for a while. They both startled when Dean's phone rang.

"You gonna get that for me?" Dean asked, "I kinda can't right now, what with being a ghost and all."

Sam didn't answer the phone; instead he glanced at the display and tossed it aside.

"Sam that was Bobby calling," Dean exclaimed when it stopped ringing, "You should've gotten that. He might have news on Bela's whereabouts and come on, I think he should know about…well about me."

When Sam's phone rang—Bobby again—Sam put both cell phones in the glove compartment.

"Sorry Bobby, I just can't right now," Sam sighed. He growled unhappily and rubbed his eyes, a look of extreme indecision on his face. He sat there, biting his lip and almost put the key in the ignition, but then pulled back, then tried again. The key never made it in the ignition after several attempts and finally, out of frustration Sam yelled, "What am I supposed to do?"

Dean winced at the question, for he had been there. He had asked the same thing, and then he sold his soul. He thought about what the reaper—Tessa he remembered her name to be—said, and suddenly worried that Sam just might take a similar route. No, Sam wouldn't do that. He couldn't.

"Come on Sammy, let's just get out of here," Dean said.

"Fuck," Sam hissed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He angrily climbed out of the impala and slammed the door shut and stormed off on foot. Startled Dean climbed out and followed, finding the sensation of moving through the impala's metal frame weird, unnerving and cold.

"Where are you going?"

Sam continued walking with a furious gait. When he bumped into a couple walking in the opposite direction he didn't even apologize, he hardly acknowledged them at all. Dean almost apologized for him, but stopped when they ended up stumbling through him as they tried to catch their balance from colliding with Sam. The sensation that followed left the couple feeling cold and unnerved by Sam's behavior, and Dean feeling unnaturally and uncomfortably warm.

"What are you doing Sam? Sammy?" Dean called after him.

When Sam stopped walking Dean frowned, "Breakfast? You stormed off with a vengeance so you can get breakfast?"

Sam entered the restaurant where they last ate together on Tuesday. Well, Dean ate, Sam just watched the guy at the counter who turned out to be the Trickster. "What are you doing?" Dean wondered as Sam sat in the booth in the corner, with his back to the wall.

Doris the waitress approached him with a smile, "What can I get you hun?"

"Coffee," Sam replied shortly.

"You should eat something Sammy, you haven't really eaten since… well since before I died."

"Sure thing," Doris smiled and she left and then quickly returned with a pot of coffee and poured some into his cup.

For three hours Dean sat across from Sam in the restaurant, watching him, wondering what exactly was going on in his head. Sam hardly moved except to drink his coffee or signal to Doris that he wanted a refill. Doris offered him a newspaper, but Sam declined, opting to watch the door intently, like he was waiting for someone. It wasn't until the caffeine made him jittery that Sam finally ordered solid food. But even then, he hardly touched it. He just continued to watch the door, eating only because he had to.

"Sammy, what are you doing?" Dean asked after a while, "You can't just sit here all day."

There was a sort of bitterness in Sam's eyes that made Dean uncomfortable. It was different than the despair he displayed earlier that morning. It reminded him of the look that haunted Dean since Sam rose from the dead. It was the look Sam wore when he killed Jake. He had that look again when he shot the demon possessed Casey and the priest, it was the same look he wore when he decapitated Gordon. The cold look in his eyes screamed bloody murder. Dean shook his head sadly and pleadingly as it dawned on him as to why he was there, "Sam, no. It's not worth it. Please. He's human Sam."

But Sam continued to sit there and wait.

Cal never came.

It was late in the afternoon when Sam finally gave up and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, Dean wanted justice for his murder, he wanted it in a bad way. But Cal wasn't being seduced by a demon like Jake had been, and he wasn't possessed, there was nothing supernatural about the evil he committed and if Sam went through with his revenge, if he went through with what Dean feared he might be planning, Sam would never recover.

0-o-0-o-0

Darkness fell and Sam drove to a secluded area outside of town and built a pyre. After leaving the restaurant, Sam, with a new alias and disguise had claimed Dean's body taking him from the morgue and carefully placed him in the impala where he prepared for the funeral. Dean watched him and the process reminded him harshly of a similar time when they had done the same thing for their father. But this time it was his body on the pyre, and Sam was (for the most part) alone.

Sam had wrapped Dean's body ceremoniously in a shroud of white and placed him on the pyre. Dean had to turn away, because seeing his body again suddenly made his situation very real, very final and it reminded him too much of the time they burned his father's body. John's sacrifice cut deep into his soul, and the wound never did heal. Dean shouldn't have lived as long as he did, and while he recovered from the accident that was meant to kill him thanks to his father, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was innately _wrong_ that he survived.

Perhaps that was why it was so easy to make his deal for Sam. Dean was supposed to be dead already, and making that deal still felt right regardless of what the reaper said. Sam was meant to live. He knew it was unfair to Sam, he understood first hand how hard it was, but he believed that by making the deal, he was restoring Fate. Now he was dead by means that had nothing to do with the deal, and Sam was alive, and that was the way it should be. He believed that whole-heartedly.

"Dean," Sam said in a hushed and broken whisper, "I'm so sorry. I tried. I really did. I tried so hard to save you and I… I failed you. But I'll fix this somehow. I don't know how, but I'm not giving up on you, I promise. I doubt you can hear me, but if you can, just know that somehow I'll find a way to get you out. I'll find a way to free you." He ran his hand over his face much like Dean and John tended to do when faced with a problem, or a hurt or sorrow that they found too difficult to deal with. He pinched the bridge of his nose, "Why did you have to be so stupid? Why Dean? Losing you is hard enough but, god, knowing where you are, because of me... you deserved better. I wasn't worth you losing your soul, why couldn't you realize it? Why did you have to be so fucking selfish Dean? You're such a jerk!"

"Bitch," Dean muttered softly.

"No, you weren't selfish," he sighed, "Far from it. Just foolish." Sam reached into his pocket and held something in his hand. Dean couldn't see what it was, but he held it with such reverence that he knew it was important to Sam. When he uncurled his fingers Dean saw it was the amulet he always wore.

"Remember when you got this?" Sam murmured nostalgically.

"Yeah, you gave it to me for Christmas one year," Dean grinned, "it's one of my prized possessions."

"I gave it to you for Christmas one year," Sam smiled, "It was one of the worst Christmases I had because, well remember, that was the year I found dad's journal and… yeah, I finally found out why dad left us so much. But you…well you made it better. I don't know if I told you that. I was so mad that you and dad lied to me, and that dad abandoned us on Christmas to hunt a stupid ghost…but then you went on about how dad was a hero and," he paused to chuckle, "you even stole presents from some girl so I could have a Christmas. You tried to convince me dad had come while I slept, but Dean, even before I opened the presents I figured out what you did. I was eight, not stupid.

"Still that's the kind of person you were. For someone who fought all his life, you were the peacekeeper. You didn't want me to be angry with dad for bringing us into that life. You tried to convince me that dad was the best dad ever, that he was a hero and I guess—no, I _know_—that's true, but he wasn't much of a dad, he put too much on your shoulders and to be honest I don't think he knew how to be a dad, but I know he tried. He was your hero though so…well that counts for a lot," Sam sighed heavily, "because Dean, you've always been my hero. You were my big brother, you took care of me, you cheered me up when I needed it, you saved my life countless times, you dedicated your life to protect me, to help others. You were a pain in the ass sometimes with your antics, but Dean, you were also the most selfless person I know. You put everyone else first and that's why I think it's fucking bullshit that you're gone, and that you're in…Hell, because of me." Sam's voice broke and he took in a deep, shaky breath, "Why'd you have to do it Dean? It should've been me, not you."

"You're wrong about that Sammy," Dean shook his head, "you're wrong."

"Anyway," Sam sniffed as he carefully lowered the shroud from Dean's face, "that's why I gave this to you instead of dad, because you're my hero, always will be." Sam bit his lip and studied Dean's lifeless face. He wanted to think that it looked like Dean was sleeping like people often told themselves at funerals, but no matter how he looked at him, Dean still looked dead. He didn't even look peaceful, but Sam figured it was because he knew that Dean wasn't at peace, and never would be unless Sam found a way to save him from his fate. The tears Sam had been fighting back escaped and streamed down his cheeks as he reverently tied the amulet around Dean's neck.

"I thought you'd be keeping that Sammy. I think you should. So you can have it as a little piece of me to remember me by. I mean, I don't need it anymore."

"I think you should have this back," Sam whispered as he wiped his eyes, "I hope it will protect you in there, and it will remind you of me, remind you of who you are when the pain from being…down there becomes t-too much to bear. Just…h-hold on for me Dean…p-please. I know you're st-strong," he paused to choke back a sob, "but hold on bro, because I'll find a way to get you out of there. So help me I'll still try to save you from that stupid piece of shit deal you made, I'll keep trying, maybe even bring you back, b-but you just have to stay strong, for me."

"I wish I could tell you that I'm right here," Dean said, "that I'm OK. I'm not in Hell yet, and even if I was, you know me, I'll always hold on for you. Just don't do anything stupid, OK?"

Sam covered Dean's face with the shroud and fought to hold back his crying, "Damn it Dean! You were supposed to be safe! Making it to Wednesday was supposed to mean you were safe! I can't deal with losing you again. I just can't! I was supposed to have more time to save you! It wasn't supposed to be like this! You weren't supposed to leave me here alone."

"You're not alone Sammy," Dean sighed.

"There's just too much shit going on right now, you know?" Sam muttered, "I can't fight this war alone."

"Yes you can."

"I don't want to," Sam continued without pause, "I need you Dean. When I lost Jess, I thought I couldn't carry on. I still miss her. I still love her. I don't think I'll ever get over losing her, or dad, or you. But when she died, you were the one who helped me through it. Without you, I don't think I could've carried on. You've always been there for me, even when I was away at college. You were the one that supported my decision to go, even though you vocally didn't like it, you still stood behind my decision and I knew that if I needed you when I was at Stanford, you'd probably be there in a heartbeat. I regret the way I resented you and dad back then, it was unfair of me, and I'm sorry," Sam wiped his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he sobbed, "You were always there for me when I needed you, and now you're gone and I need you now more than ever Dean. Losing Jess was hard, but god, Dean, losing you is unbearable. You're my brother, I need you."

Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder, or at least pretended to since it was physically impossible. Dean's fingers went through Sam's jacket and when he sensed that he reached Sam's shoulder he stopped. Surprisingly, Dean could feel the contact as though he was corporeal, and it gave him a sudden hope that this was the chance he was waiting for to let Sam know he was there. Testing the waters Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder, but his fingers went right through. Dean's spirit absorbed Sam's warmth, and while he was left feeling uncomfortably warm, Sam pulled away with a violent shiver.

Sam looked around as though he _did_ sense a presence, but he shook his head decisively and knelt down, reaching into his duffel. He pulled out three items.

The first was a photograph of the Winchesters, taken when Sam was still a baby, and mom was still alive. The second was a mixed cassette tape Dean had made when he was thirteen, and it was filled with his favorite songs from Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" to Metallica's "Wherever I May Roam". He had played it until it wore out and couldn't play anymore, but Dean couldn't bring himself to throw it out. When asked, Dean had said it was because it was the tape he was listening to when he lost his virginity, but that wasn't the case. The real reason was because of Side A. At the time of the fire, mom had been in the process of making dad a mix tape but she only filled the one side. The tape had survived the fire, and eventually Dean had filled Side B. As far as Dean knew, Sam never learned the real significance of the tape. The third item Sam pulled from the duffel was a rolled up piece of paper.

He ceremoniously placed the items around Dean's body. "A picture to remember us by," Sam said as he put the photograph down, "the tape you and mom made," (so he _did _know) he declared as he put it down, "and my college transcript." The third item confused Dean, but Sam explained, "I'm never going back to that life. I thought I would, I wanted to, but things have changed so much."

After Sam did that Dean suddenly got nervous when Sam pulled out the salt and the lighter fluid. He should've known it was coming. When Dean was sick and dying after being electrocuted, Dean had bitterly given Sam the options of cremation or burial. Sam didn't want to talk about it, and neither did Dean, but he remembered on the drive to Roy Le Grange's, he had said to Sam, "If this specialist can't help me, I want to be cremated, and I don't know what will happen to me…after, but I don't want to be a spirit so…" Sam had cut him off, not accepting the possibility of the faith healer failing, but he knew what Dean was saying, and he was obviously staying true to Dean's wishes.

Of course now that he was a spirit, he didn't really want to know first hand what happened to them after the salt 'n' burn. Suddenly he wondered if he was going to be sent to Hell by his brother's hand, or if he'd be sent somewhere else, or if he'd just cease to exist, or if nothing would happen at all.

"You know, maybe for shits and giggles you should just forget the salt, how 'bout that Sammy? What do you think? I think that's a great idea," Dean smirked, glad no one could hear the panic in his voice.

Sam took a deep breath and poured the salt on Dean's body. Dean felt a hot, tingling sensation where the salt landed and Dean realized how the spirits always seemed to know when they were about to vanquish them. The salt hurt, it burned, and Sam hadn't even lit his body on fire yet. This wasn't good.

"Sam," he winced, "I changed my mind, I want to be buried."

Sam let out a small sob, "I miss you so much Dean. I don't know what I'm going to do without you." He lit the match, "Good-bye Dean."

TBC

0-o-0-o-0

**A/N** Hey! Look at that, a cliffie! Sort of. Once again, please let me know what you think. It will really cheer me up after the depressing sight of snow outside. It's supposed to be spring dang it! The snow had just finally melted! And now we've got heavy snowfall warnings. It's not fair!


End file.
